Online ReporterRosenthal Mutakati
Ghetto Blast
LIFE is a journey pregnant with surprises. Just like pregnancy itself, life is not a predetermined path, but rather a series of unfolding events — some planned, many unplanned.
I have personally tried to look at life from the isolated perspective of an island, but without success. My father and mother left this world decades ago to go and live with the angels, leaving our rural home with virtually no one to care for it.
My siblings and I are utterly preoccupied with city life and the relentless pressures that come with it. This long-standing absence eventually prompted a stern call from the village head, who threatened to repossess the land and parcel it out to other people in need — people capable of putting it to good use.
Cracked walls, unweeded gardens, and thriving termite mounds were everywhere, and this was “just unbefitting for someone of my stature,” the village head reminded me, executing a flawless guilt trip.
Stung by his message, and being careful not to anger the spirits of the departed, I found myself hiring a builder to spruce up the homestead.
Unbeknown to me, I had literally signed off my happiness, my sanity, and my freedom the exact moment I shook his hand. I got far more than I bargained for. The guy I hired was highly-experienced and exceptionally knowledgeable.
Sadly, his positive attributes ended right there. Money seemed to make the absolute lion in him roar. Each time I paid him, it triggered an immediate cascade of funeral after funeral and one sudden sickness after another, until I completely gave up hope.
“My brother, I am so sorry I couldn’t complete the stage as we agreed. My wife lost her late brother’s wife’s mother in an accident last week, and I was the only person available to assist with the logistics. I will make good on the deal as soon as I come back,” the builder, hailing from the Matemai totem, would tell me over the phone, spinning a web of bereavement so complex it required a family tree to decode.
After a few weeks of radio silence, he would unashamedly gather the courage to phone me again, this time trying to wring cash from my bleeding wallet.
“Hie there. I hope you are doing fine. I have a small challenge, bro. My daughter has an aching head and I need to take her to the specialists. You can advance me US$200 and then we will make amends when we reach the next stage. I have no one else to turn to except you. Please help me,” he would plead, transforming a mild headache into a medical emergency requiring a panel of top-tier neurosurgeons.
Gentle reader, after being duped, dodged, and emotionally blackmailed by this fellow long enough to completely erode my patience, I later learned that I was actually in a far better position than my workmate.
“You are lucky your builder even phones you time and again,” a colleague confided in me at the office.
“Mine just reports for work, cooks a massive, celebratory pot of sadza and ox-head with his peers on my budget, and then disappears into the sunset with my bricks and cement.
“The bloke actually sells almost everything he can lay his hands on. I am genuinely contemplating having him arrested.” He paused, shaking his head.
An elderly lady who hitched a lift with me had her own tragicomic tale to share. “Those people called builders are a special breed. I have just stopped building altogether because my patience is entirely depleted. One of my builders would sell my construction materials behind my back, while others just collected cash deposits and vanished,” she said, tears of pure frustration rolling down her cheeks.
As I commit pen to paper, dear reader, police stations across the country are awash with reports of property owners who have been made to bite the shortest end of the stick by their contractors.
It is, however, not a strict one-size-fits-all affair. There are indeed some trustworthy, competent, and industrious builders out there. It’s just that they are as rare as a quiet day in the city. Building is a dog’s life, but someone has got to live it. Inotambika mughetto.fe from the isolated perspective of an island, but without success. My father and mother left this world decades ago to go and live with the angels, leaving our rural home with virtually no one to care for it.
My siblings and I are utterly preoccupied with city life and the relentless pressures that come with it. This long-standing absence eventually prompted a stern call from the village head, who threatened to repossess the land and parcel it out to other people in need — people capable of putting it to good use.
Cracked walls, unweeded gardens, and thriving termite mounds were everywhere, and this was “just unbefitting for someone of my stature,” the village head reminded me, executing a flawless guilt trip.
Stung by his message, and being careful not to anger the spirits of the departed, I found myself hiring a builder to spruce up the homestead.
Unbeknown to me, I had literally signed off my happiness, my sanity, and my freedom the exact moment I shook his hand. I got far more than I bargained for. The guy I hired was highly-experienced and exceptionally knowledgeable.
Sadly, his positive attributes ended right there. Money seemed to make the absolute lion in him roar. Each time I paid him, it triggered an immediate cascade of funeral after funeral and one sudden sickness after another, until I completely gave up hope.
“My brother, I am so sorry I couldn’t complete the stage as we agreed. My wife lost her late brother’s wife’s mother in an accident last week, and I was the only person available to assist with the logistics. I will make good on the deal as soon as I come back,” the builder, hailing from the Matemai totem, would tell me over the phone, spinning a web of bereavement so complex it required a family tree to decode.
After a few weeks of radio silence, he would unashamedly gather the courage to phone me again, this time trying to wring cash from my bleeding wallet.
“Hie there. I hope you are doing fine. I have a small challenge, bro. My daughter has an aching head and I need to take her to the specialists. You can advance me US$200 and then we will make amends when we reach the next stage. I have no one else to turn to except you. Please help me,” he would plead, transforming a mild headache into a medical emergency requiring a panel of top-tier neurosurgeons.
Gentle reader, after being duped, dodged, and emotionally blackmailed by this fellow long enough to completely erode my patience, I later learned that I was actually in a far better position than my workmate.
“You are lucky your builder even phones you time and again,” a colleague confided in me at the office.
“Mine just reports for work, cooks a massive, celebratory pot of sadza and ox-head with his peers on my budget, and then disappears into the sunset with my bricks and cement.
“The bloke actually sells almost everything he can lay his hands on. I am genuinely contemplating having him arrested.” He paused, shaking his head.
An elderly lady who hitched a lift with me had her own tragicomic tale to share. “Those people called builders are a special breed. I have just stopped building altogether because my patience is entirely depleted. One of my builders would sell my construction materials behind my back, while others just collected cash deposits and vanished,” she said, tears of pure frustration rolling down her cheeks.
As I commit pen to paper, dear reader, police stations across the country are awash with reports of property owners who have been made to bite the shortest end of the stick by their contractors.
It is, however, not a strict one-size-fits-all affair. There are indeed some trustworthy, competent, and industrious builders out there. It’s just that they are as rare as a quiet day in the city. Building is a dog’s life, but someone has got to live it. Inotambika mughetto.
